


Scars

by Caidyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drabble, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Art, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post Reichenbach, at least not too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caidyn/pseuds/Caidyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scars aren't always visible, some are hidden deep down where no one can see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by [this](http://theivoryfool.tumblr.com/post/52384619100/sherlock-and-lestrade-friendship-the-three-years) lovely piece of art. Fool really does draw the best Sherstrade in my opinion. I do suggest you check her out if you haven't already.

All over his skin, scars lay. Some deep and dragging, others from careless mistakes concerning various chemicals getting spilled on his skin, some light and almost gone from the running around he had done as a child. Then there were the ones Sherlock hid from the light, hid forever; they’d never be seen, not once, if people let it be, let the past be.

Over three years, he had accumulated more of both. People fawned over the ones that showed on the skin; seeing them and saying to themselves, “God, I don’t know how he did it.” Fighting single handedly against the most feared crime base in London did that to a person. It did it to him. Various escapes and explosions, shrapnel slicing through the air, through him, had caused it. A few grazes -- even hits -- from a bullet that left chunks of skin gone, the pitted dip only a reminder of all that he had done.

The ones that were more severe, were the internal ones. Finally he understood what John had gone through in readjusting to civilian life after the war. Screams from people dying, punctuating the air coldly and shrilly, breaking the barred gate Sherlock kept around his heart; the look on their face as they plead for him to leave them, that they wouldn’t do anymore damage to anyone, a quiet life in the country; his posture when he walked away from them, gun tucked back to where it was kept while he left their bleeding corpse wherever he had shot them. All those things haunted his dreams. He slept less and less, only finding himself clawing for air when he woke up.

A hand would rest on his side and whisper, “Sunshine? What is it?” That man who uttered the pet name, then pulled him into his chest, a comforting area that was plush with a bit of natural fat that came with his age and muscle he built up from going to the gym as often as he did. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” he always answered in a strained, quiet voice. Greg would roll over to his side, an arm draping around Sherlock’s waist to pull him in closer.

Even as Greg do that, he knew what he man thought: It wasn’t nothing.

Wherever he went during the day, Lestrade didn’t follow too far behind. The only time he had to himself was in the bathroom. Sherlock took long showers, basking in the steam that fogged up the entire room by the time he was finished, usually when the hot water had run out completely. He stood or sat with the water running over his body, either silent in his thoughts or expressing how broken he was by crying, only gasping for air, and clutching at his skin.

Halfway through his usual regime of washing his hair then body, and then sitting himself down there came a knock at the door. “Come in,” Sherlock called, his brow furrowing. He had been about to sit himself down to wallow in the memories of all he had done. The door creaked open -- Greg really needed to oil it -- and through the glass of the shower door he could see the man, dressed, going towards it.

“Do you mind if I open up the door? I just want to say something to you.” Soft words, spoken only so they could be heard above the water pounding down to the tiled shower floor. A warped version of himself could be seen through the glass while he nodded his head.

Greg revealed himself wearing a button up shirt that was definitely for work, slacks that went with it. No shoes or tie yet so he was in the middle of getting ready. Another day alone for Sherlock, hoping that John might call so they could talk and make amends. Like that would happen; John had moved on, marrying a lovely woman -- without any notice, one day she showed up on Greg’s door, wanting to see him and simply talk to him about John and himself -- named Mary Morstan. Blonde hair with a bit of a curl to it, hazel eyes that were soft and warm to look at, an olive skin tone, and a smart dresser. The woman John had looked for.

“What is it,” Sherlock asked softly as the door opened. A blast of air entered the shower, causing a cold front that bent the steam up towards the ceiling. Hopefully in this case it wouldn’t cause any heavy rains.

No words. Greg took a step closer, one socked foot stepping on the tile before the second followed it, ducking his head under the silver frame that held up the door. Arms went around his, a hand touching the middle of his back while the other came up to cradle the back of Sherlock’s head. When his lips were pressed close to Sherlock’s ear, the DI started speaking.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” he breathed out. “Just know that everything will be all right. I’ll always be here for you no matter what. And I’m not that easy to shake off, Sunshine.” He turned his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s temple, cementing that thought into his head.

This time, Sherlock wasn’t alone as he cried. The shirt became damp from his body pressed against his, one hand clinging to the bit of shirt on Greg’s chest, the other snaking around to put just under one of his shoulder blades. Without a clock in the room, he had no idea of how much time passed as he got it all out, the DI patiently waiting there without a sound coming from him, becoming a rock for Sherlock to curl against as he scrambled to find peace.


End file.
